By the time I get home, my hands are swollen, speckled with red rashes that itch badly. I’ve been scratching my arms the entire walk back, and I don’t even try to stop myself. I don’t care. This is what I wanted. A little pain, a small punishment, something to remind me not to fall for people so easily. Not again.

  When I open the door, Mom is asleep on the couch, her feet propped up on a pillow. Her one ankle is noticeably swollen, a familiar sight after long shifts and too much walking at work. From the way she massages the numbing cream into her skin several times a day, I can tell she’s in pain, too.

  I move quietly, careful not to wake her, and check the calendar in the kitchen. She circles her workdays on the calendar, our own quiet way of keeping each other informed. Seeing that she’s on the night shift today makes me feel a lot better. I’ll text her later and send a picture, along with an explanation of why I won’t be going to school for the next few days. Tomorrow, when she’s home, I’ll play that usual game of hide-and-seek, me awake while she sleeps, asleep while she’s awake. I’ve perfected that routine quite a lot.

  I grab a bag of chips, a juice, and some water, then head straight to my room. Curling up under my blanket, I pull out the book I borrowed from the library - Conan. I love books. Once I start one, I can’t stop until the last page. I usually stick to textbooks and rarely bring home storybooks or novels, but when I do, I disappear into them completely.

  That’s exactly what happens tonight.

  Seconds melt into minutes. Minutes stretch into hours. I only lift my head when I hear footsteps downstairs. I glance at the clock above my desk. It’s eight o’clock, which means Mom’ll start getting ready for her shift soon and could show up anytime.

  It doesn’t take long. Hardly a few minutes pass before I hear footsteps approaching. I quickly switch off the lamp and pull the blanket over my head. The door creaks open just a little. I hear her breathing, heavy, tired, worn down from the climb. She pauses, then quietly backs out, closing the door as softly as she can.

  I wait until I hear her footsteps fade before turning the light back on.

  By nine-thirty, she leaves for work. When the front door closes, I finally relax. I go downstairs, grab another bag of chips, and keep eating while I read. When I finish the book, it’s well past midnight.

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  My arms are covered in tiny, swollen, red, irritated blisters that make every movement uncomfortable.

  I take a picture and send it to Mom.

  'I think I touched something by accident. It looks like an allergy. I’m not sure. It’s not too bad, though.'

  I keep my phone in my hand, staring at the screen for a reply, and as expected, it comes almost instantly.

  'Oh my goodness, Scarlet. What’s happened? Did you go through the Ivy Trail?'

  'No,' I lie.

  'Then where did you get it?'

  'No idea.'

  'Don’t lie, Scarlet. I’ve told you a hundred times not to wander into the woods. You never listen. Why can’t you take the bus home like the other kids? And don’t use the library as an excuse again. I won’t accept it.'

  She’s angry, I can tell. But her rules and regulations make me angry, too. I do well at school and don’t run into trouble, unlike a lot of other kids. What more does she want?

  'You see my good grades because I use the library, unlike everyone else. If you don’t want to see me do well, whatever,' I snap back.

  She seems to soften, at least a little. 'It’s not about the library. It’s about you not doing what I tell you. Look at your hands now.'

  ‘I’m fine. It’s nothing serious. I might skip school tomorrow.’

  ‘Just for tomorrow,’ she writes. ‘Looks like you won’t be going for a few days.’

  'It’s not a big deal. I can manage. I’ll get the notes from Selena.'

  'Would you like me to come home?'

  I can’t hold my frustration in. 'For what?′

  'To take you to the hospital or something.'

  'No. I washed it and put on calamine lotion. It’s already better.'

  'Call me if you need me. Love you.'

  I don’t reply. Not ‘love you’ back. Not even an ‘okay.’ I don’t even send an emoji to show I’ve read it.

  The truth is, the only person in the whole world who genuinely loves me is my mom. Her love is steady, honest, and unshakable, unlike Oliver’s. I see how hard she works, how she pushes herself for me, how she gives up so much, and how everything she does is for me. She’s the one constant I can always count on.

  And yet, no matter how much I want to, I can’t love her back in the same way.

  I wish I were better. I wish I could appreciate her more, help her, take some of the weight off her shoulders, but I don’t. All I feel is frustration and anger, especially about the life I didn’t get to have. A life with both parents under one roof. A life with siblings around the dinner table.

  I have a father and a sister somewhere out there, but I don’t know where. I don’t remember them at all. We could have had a family like the other kids in my class, but my mom decided against it. She never answers my questions about them. I only know they exist because I overheard a conversation between my mom and her friend.

  Though I feel sorry for how I treat my mom, sometimes I think she deserves it, for keeping the truth from me, for not giving me the life I wanted, and for separating me from my dad and my sister.

  Maybe my anger is justified.